


Melting Snowflakes, Hallowed Shadows

by Anonymous



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: AH YES, Character Study, I needed fluff, Introspection, M/M, Post-DMC5, Reading vergil a novel, Sleeping Dante, Snow Storms, Soft Vergil (Devil May Cry), The Classic, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, no beta we die like men, so much prose, spardacest without the sex, the return of racoon dante, though Dante is asleep in this, use dante as a blanket trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:40:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28858989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The time would come, where they too would become dust feeding the crops of forgotten cities, and their souls unravelled, cleaned and reweaved into new shells, but right now, in this time, they were together, never alone, not any more. Never apart.While Dante naps, Vergil ponders on the path his life has now taken.
Relationships: Dante/Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 58
Collections: Anonymous, Spardacest Server Fics and Art





	Melting Snowflakes, Hallowed Shadows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Omnibee13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omnibee13/gifts).



> It's been a day and a half today, so I decided to treat us with gratuitous fluff, hope you don't mind me gifting it to you, Omni.  
> As for the rest of you, I love you all, keep burning, DV shippers.  
> Special thanks to you five. You know who you are.  
> I hope you guys have a good day

The winter had drawn its harsh curtain around the tiny shop, wind howling outside, hammering hail and snow against the plate glass windows.

Against the anger of the storm, their sanctuary stood, and thankfully, even the wicked fingers of the ice's cold embrace couldn't penetrate the warmth from his brother's arms around his waist.

Above him, his brother, the damned handsome devil, snored contentedly, body limp and lax against his own, and though the sofa was small and downright uncomfortable when sat alone on it, in his brother’s arms, it felt downright sinfully heavenly. Dante’s furnace felt wonderful against his cold skin, made all the colder for the storm blowing outside, only to be thwarted by the man on top of him.

The fact that his legs had gone to sleep was only mild discomfort, and if he had to put up with it to get through a few chapters of his book without Dante putting him off, he would. He had survived the flames of Mundus, he could cope with needles in his legs.

Probably.

He should have insisted that Dante move, before he had slipped into Morpheus's sweet embrace, but quite simply, Vergil found, he didn’t have the heart to do so, and the heat that Dante was outputting made it so much more worth keeping him close. He also happened to be comfortable where he was, thank you very much.

Licking a slim finger to get a better grip on the edge of the page, he turned it over, holding his breath for a moment as Dante shifted slightly in his sleep, giving a fond hum as his brother settled once more. The book wasn’t a particularly gripping one, more a massacre of trees than a raunchy novel, but he was still trying and failing, to read it.

The storm outside was dying down, the vortex of wind moving across the sleeping city just as fast as it had come, blowing cobwebs out of the cracked bricks, leaving behind hollows filled with decades of shadows and forgotten secrets.

A tiny boat of calm sailing in an ocean of sorrow.

The snow outside had settled too, blanketing the world in a soft woollen sheet, drowning out all of the noise, all it seemed, apart from the occasional grunt and snorting from his sleeping love.

The world was good right now. The world was perfect.

There would be times later, for tears, pain, sorrows and sadness, there would be time for hurtful frustrations and agonising fears, but right now, all was well.

It was truly moments like this that made him question his entire existence. If he had abandoned his quest for power, would his life have been filled with tiny moments like this that made his heart grow to the point of bursting?

“Sweet joy, but two days old.” He quoted, more to himself than his sleeping twin, taking his eyes off the book holding his attention to glance at Dante, a contented hum leaving him. “I love you, brother mine, with all of my existence.” He swore to his sleeping twin, sacred and profane promise, an oath taken in the silence of a crystalline cathedral, as he moved his hand, brushing over his brother’s head momentarily before returning to his book.

When all was wrong with the world, and he needed to remind himself that things would be okay, everything would be okay, he’d recall the joys he held with such gentle promise, and whisper tender words of forgiveness to the powers above that be.

He had bowed down and prayed too many times, musing and contemplating an existence that now looked bright with promise, for too long, he had been haunted by the fear of forgetting voices and places of the loved ones he had lost.

And then he had met Dante again, and all of that pain had become a wonder. His own self-proclaimed purpose had become blurry in the questions he had asked himself, time and again, if what he was doing was the right thing, if it would be possible to go through and change his ways, take Dante in hand and just live.

In the absence of answers to the questions he had asked the skies that had seemed far too small to hold entire universes in them, he had cried, hoping to feel something close to what he had felt in that singular paradigm-shifting moment, but the universe had stood back in silence, and he had been lost to the darkness, blindfolded, wide awake and becoming a stranger to his love, redefining the rights and wrongs that their parents had given them as gifts wrapped in silken threads of growth.

His existence, like the love he now had, had never been easy to comprehend. His life up until remeeting his twin had been summed up as a picture, a few words, burning tears and then ashes, crumbling in the ruins of an empty house and broken heart, that wreckage of seeping red love, lust and loss.

Finding his twin alive once more had turned his life into a faint piece of gold, sheltered in his heart, bathed in its loathsome shine. He’d looked in disarray for his twin, found nothing, and thinking him dead had hidden the tears, the mirror’s bleak facade, and looked away, dragging his only link to a life lost behind him.

The sound of the flames felt so distant now, and the ghostly visitors had sheltered their eyes from the engulfing despair and walked away, looking at his bloodied body and cries with disdain. The view, even in his memory of that day, was foggy. The sound was distant, but the emotions so vivid, so real.

If he focused his mind, he could have felt the flames licking his twin’s body, the heat draining even their healing potential. Such a gift, and what a curse. 

There would be time, in the future, to question things, to talk the past over and mourn, to curse their father’s name and beg for guidance from the greater powers. Perhaps one day, they could be whole once more, one whole soul in two bodies instead of a fragmented mess of broken glass and grease. There would be time enough for tears and for the waves of depression to crash over them, sweeping away all that they were to be remade into stardust and supernovas.

His own universe was theirs to hold, wrapped in red leather and named Dante. Perhaps it always had been.

He turned the page once more, huffing a faint sigh, his brother’s hair rustling in the whisper of air from his lungs. He wasn’t really seeing the words, recorded on sheets of paper by faces and figured even more unknown, anymore. 

He wished he could have returned to his past self, with the knowledge of this time, with his knowledge that even then, his brother had been in love with him, he wished he could have taken his brother’s hand, outreached to him, before he fell, and danced with him, stirring and swirling, hoping beyond hope that happiness would follow. 

He had never learned to swim, and he had almost drowned in his own defeat and despair, the currents too strong for even one of his aptitude. And like water in the hands of the parched, his brother had left to places he could not - no - would not follow.

With all his heart, he wished he could have gone back, as a friend, as a lover, as a brother, hell, even as a soulmate, to convince his younger self to stop. Tell himself that Dante needed him and that without his warmth by his side, he would freeze in the pits of Tartarus, like Cronus and the titans of old before him. He wished he could have heard his brother, whispering his name with the fated breath, and destined reason. Perhaps he was being selfish. 

The weight of the world truly was love. And how so he was gladly burdened.

The setting starlight outside set the world alight with diamonds, the snow shining with the light of tiny fireflies. 

True endings always found a way to be summarized, abridged and recreated all over again by a willing hand with enough patience. Would that happen to them, he wondered idly, moving the hand from the corner of the book to the lower of Dante’s back, gently pressing his brother close to his own body, circling the shirt covered flesh, as though he could merge the two of them into a single entity. 

The time would come, where they too would become dust feeding the crops of forgotten cities, and their souls unravelled, cleaned and rewove into new shells, but right now, in this time, they were together, never alone, not any more. Never apart. 

He set the book down on his brother’s back, winding his arms around the man who was his entire universe. He would rest awhile, safe in the knowledge that he was wanted and adored back, just as much as he gave. His eyes were growing heavy, and from the dying sun, shining like a flare from the ceiling above, the ghost of Eva smiled, a knitted quilt, keeping away nightmares.

Finally, peace.

Not all books had a happy ending, but their one, this one, it seemed, did.


End file.
